Understanding
by Emma15
Summary: The boys come to see the hand of destiny. Spoilers: anything up to Croatian is fair. Rated for language. Set in S2. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Supernatural."

**Author's Note**: It's been awhile since I worked on a SN multi-chapter story. So here goes...

I hope you enjoy. :-)

* * *

She didn't look as angelic as he remembered. In fact, she looked a little haggard; definitely tired and possibly short-tempered if the way she was muttering under her breath was any indication.

She was at a changing table-- changing-- a baby. The baby gurgled and kicked chubby legs; she wrapped gentle, but firm fingers around them-- holding the feet still. The baby made a sound in protest; she made a shushing one in response, but didn't release him. With one hand she finished arranging and fastening the child's diaper. Then she released him and sat him up on the table, "All finished, Sammy," she murmured, smiling a little.

Dear lord.

He must have made a sound, red-rimmed eyes lifted suddenly. They stared directly at him, then she straightened, keeping one hand on the baby, looking at him boldly; not in the way he'd expect a woman who found a 6'5 stranger in her child's nursery would. Her head tilted to one side, the way he'd seen Dean do a million times.

"You shouldn't be here." She said softly.

He opened his mouth; she spoke first, "Wake up," she ordered in a tone he never got the chance to bristle against.

He startled awake.

The room was dark and shadowed, moonlight slipping in through cracks in the window shade. Dean was sprawled every which way in the bed next to his. He lay perfectly still for a moment, trying to catch his breath. It was coming in gasps and there were tremors running through his body.

The nursery had been pale blue walls with a wooden crib, a mix of baseball and trucks. He'd never remembered that nursery, never; he'd never even seen it in pictures.

He'd never seen her as anything, but perfect. He'd never imagined her as anything, but perfect.

God. What the hell had just happened?

He sat up and swung his legs to floor. A moment later he was in the bathroom splashing cold water over his face.

It was just a dream. Just a dream. A dream.

* * *

He could smell the cookies. They made his mouth water. The kitchen was empty. Used bowls and unused cookie dough lined the counter, spoons and flour sat on the kitchen table. The house was quiet.

He took a step forward, nothing changed. Slowly he reached out and touched the cookie dough. It was soft and warm and _real, _he swallowed hard, and removed his hand.

The windows were open, sunlight and breeze streamed through them, fluttering white curtains that had daisy's on them. The walls seemed brighter than when he'd been here with Dean to visit Jenny.

He took another step, dipped his finger in the flour. The sack was open, a dusting covered the table, the floor was sprinkled with it.

There was a rustling at the doorway. He looked up. She stood there, watching him, a chubby dark-haired child propped on hip. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, strands of it tucked behind her ear. She wore faded jeans and t-shirt that had to belong to his Dad.

She took a step forward, "You shouldn't be here," she murmured, he had a moment to see that flash of sadness he'd once seen face to face before she spoke again, "Wake up," she ordered.

He startled awake.

The room was pitch black and he could hear Dean softly snoring in the other bed. He waited for his heartbeat to slow down, for the tremors to pass.

Just a dream, he stared into the bathroom mirror, water dripping down his face and repeated the mantra, just a dream.

A dream.

* * *

She was cursing-- loud and colorful and _long; _not like a sailor, like a Marine. He couldn't stop his eyes from widening. She was on the phone in the kitchen, with flushed cheeks and damp hair standing out in all directions; hands waving in the air while _cursed _at someone. The chubby, dark-haired baby sat in a high chair happily throwing cheerios onto the floor.

"There are _fuckin _**suds **_spouting _from the **goddamned **pipes, JOHN, so **NO **I can't just HANDLE IT MY_FUCKIN_SELF!!"

He knew he sputtered, he knew it, not just because she whirled on him but because-- she was _cursing _at _Dad _so how else was he supposed to react?

_"WAKE UP." _She snarled at him, meeting his gaze forcefully.

He snapped awake, jolting in bed.

The room was barely dim and he could see clearly that the bed next to his was empty. Dean was still out. His heart was racing more than usual and he felt nauseous. He waited and slowly the effects of the _dream _faded.

The water rushed from the tap down the drain in swirls of murky mist and he recited his mantra like a holy prayer; holding it out in front of him as if warding off an unimaginable evil.

It was just a dream. Just a dream. A dream.

_A dream. _

Right.

* * *

She was picking up markers from the kitchen table, slipping them into their box, collecting sheets of paper with colorful drawings on them-- a plane in the sky, a swing set and a boy, a house with a stick family standing in front of it.

The kitchen was dim. The curtains pulled closed against the dark, moonless night. Dishes sat washed and drying on the counter.

Her hair was pulled back from her face, loose in the back. She looked tired, but content, ready for bed after a long satisfying day.

The house was quiet, but Sam could hear an indistinct rumbly voice-- a voice he knew. His Dad.

He tilted his head, instinctively trying to make out the words. A high pitched squeal, a burst of childish laughter, a cry of baby outrage...

"You really shouldn't be here."

Her voice startled him. He looked back at her, she was watching him. The box of markers in her hand, the sheets of paper carefully stacked in front of her. Her mouth opened and he tried to speak before her, but he knew even as he tried, he wouldn't be fast enough. He was never fast enough.

"Wake up," she stated.

He startled awake.

He had learned not to open his eyes until his heart rate calmed.

The room was heavily shadowed when he did open them. Dean lay on his back, perfectly still, the Vicodin doing its work.

The water stung against his bruises. He met his own dull gaze in the mirror.

_A dream,_ he though furiously, glaring at his reflection.

It was just. a. dream.

A fuckin dream.

* * *

"You're starting to look like warmed over shit again."

Sam held himself perfectly still, resting his head against the passenger side window. He didn't want to talk to Dean about this.

He wasn't really surprised that his brother had brought it up, though; it had gotten to a point where it could no longer be ignored.

He hadn't slept a full night in over a month. Even when the _dreams _of his mother didn't come, he still couldn't rest. He'd wake up in the middle of the night feeling like his heart was going to beat out of his chest and unable to catch his breath as if he were having a panic attack. It took a drink of water and a pace around the room for him to feel a bit better and at least able to lie down again—no hope of sleep, though.

For the past five days Dean had been sitting up in bed when Sam exited the bathroom. The fact that he'd been willing to let Sam know he was awake and worried meant that his brother had been aware of Sam's restless nights for awhile now.

Dean would watch him silently, as Sam got back into bed, then he'd ask softly, _you okay, _and Sam would swallow hard and croak out a quiet _yeah _because it was just. a. dream.

A **dream** goddammit.

"What's going on, Sammy?"

Sam almost laughed at that, because really? What was he supposed to tell his brother? _I think Mom is haunting me or actually I _**hope **_Mom is haunting me because if she's not than it's a whole other world of freaky shit I'd rather not deal with_-- right, 'cause Dean would love that.

"Nothing." He muttered.

"_Nothing_ has you up almost every night this month?"

"Jess loved October. The way the leaves changed-- it's nothing."

Jess _had_ loved October, but he only brought it up because it would shut Dean up. Dean never pushed about Jess.

And that's what he needed-- for Dean to back off, because he couldn't talk him about this.

The car was silent, only the sound of the road and their breathing audible. He felt his eyes begin to slip shut and could do nothing to fight it.

* * *

She was folding laundry, the dark-haired baby sitting on the floor with a plush elephant in front of him.

She looked up immediately when he appeared, pausing as she folded a small gray t-shit with the Smurfs on it. She looked at him with a mixture of frustration and understanding in her eyes, "Honestly, you shouldn't be here," she stated calmly.

He took a step forward, that same frustration washing over him ten-fold, "I'm not trying to be!" he roared and then halted, his eyes widening, he'd never spoken to her before.

She arched an eyebrow, a smirk suddenly appearing at her lips, "Learn to control your gifts or they will control you," she warned, eyeing him critically; then she opened her mouth again.

"Wait!" He cried; it was the first time he'd been able to talk, the first time he'd been able to move.

"What does that mean?" He asked, "What does _this_ mean?" He added, waving a hand to encompass the living room.

Her smile was sad suddenly and he felt something in his chest tighten, "An end is also a beginning," she murmured, her smile somehow brightening and becoming more heartbreaking in one instant. Then she offered him a one shoulder shrug, "... just wake up," she commanded, before he could say anything more.

He jolted awake, the word, "NO!" on his lips.

The moving scenery outside his window stopped abruptly and his stomach lunged. He reached for the door handle and emptied his breakfast onto the side of the road; barely noticing that Dean hadn't completely stopped the Impala. After the breakfast he heaved bile than dry. The world spinning and shifting; seconds, minutes, hours might have gone by before he was so exhausted he stopped convulsing.

Dean's hold was the only thing keeping him from falling face first into his own vomit. Dean who was standing, kneeling, bending? next to him, holding him with both arms and murmuring words Sam had no energy to decipher; but the tone, gruff and soft, was enough.

His brain felt like it was trying to jump though his cranium and he didn't think he'd ever be able to lift his head again. He let it fall forward, to the side. Dean was there, catching him-- murmuring, running a hand through his hair, leaning him back into the car, against the seat. Water touched his lips, tepid and stale and blessed. He swallowed as it slipped into his mouth. Something wet against his forehead, cheeks, neck...

The murmuring was getting urgent, the hand in his hair lingered, slid down to his cheek, tapped gently.

The world was steadying, his breaths coming easier, his hearing sharpened abruptly, "... come on Sammy, you're freakin me out-- come on..."

He drew in a shuddering breath and opened his eyes slowly. Dean was watching him anxiously, pale, freckles standing out, eyes wide, "You with me?" he asked.

Sam started to nod, but his skull protested, "Yeah... m'kay," he whispered.

Dean grimaced, "Yeah, I can see that, just peachy." He held the water up to Sam's lips again and he drank deeply this time.

"Easy, easy--" Dean murmured and pulled the bottle back; keeping a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam kept his head back, his eyes closed.

They stayed like that for long moments then Dean's voice rumbled above Sam,

"... you wanna get moving or you wanna sit for awhile longer?"

"--moving--" he croaked out without hesitation.

Dean patted Sam's shoulder and shut the passenger door. A moment later Sam heard his brother slide in next to him. They eased into traffic so gently Sam didn't even feel the movement, just heard it. They were moving slowly and Sam was so deeply grateful for that, he wanted to hug his brother. His eyes slid shut instead; his head was fuzzy and heavy.

He didn't want to fall asleep again. Whatever had just happened hadn't been fun and he suspected it had to do with him having been able to speak to her.

He forced his eyes to open. Sunlight made him wince, but they were moving steadily and slowly. He blinked back the headache as best he could as he carefully pulled himself up against the seat.

"Talk to me, Sammy," Dean drawled, thick worry making his voice deeper.

"I'm good," he murmured as an answer running a hand over his face.

"Bullshit. Talk to me. What's going on?" Dean paused, "What did you see?"

Sam jumped, frowning, _"What?"_ he asked; had he _said _he seen something?

"Those were vision symptoms... you just had a vision didn't you?"

"**No.**" He snapped a bit harsher than was necessary, "It was a dream. A. Dream. Just a dream, okay; so drop it. I don't want to talk about it."

"Whoa, chill." Dean soothed, shooting him a worried look, "So what? Dreams always make you puke your guts out?"

"Leave it, Dean. It was a dream. A. Fuckin. Dream."

The car was silent for a moment and Dean shot him another look, "You look like your head is about to explode so I'm gonna leave it-- for now."

Sam leaned his head back and closed his eyes; a moment later Dean's words registered and he groaned, "That's so unfair," he muttered, knowing he sounded like a five year old and not caring-- his head hurt and his mom was haunting him-- maybe, hopefully...

"What?"

"When I wanna talk and you don't wanna, we don't. But if you wanna and I don't, we do-- not fair." He stated, the words slurring a little towards the end; a wave of weariness crashing over him.

He heard Dean answer with, "I'm the big brother-- that trumps fair," just as the car came to a stop.

They were pulling into a motel he realized, "Wait here," Dean told him.

He didn't bother nodding; Dean was already out of the car. Instead he laid his head back against the seat, letting his eyes slide shut. It helped with the headache-- minimally, but at this point he'd take what he could get.

Dean was tugging him out of the car suddenly and he wondered if he'd fallen asleep for a little while because it was hard to open his eyes when Dean hauled him to his feet. Not that it really mattered; he just let Dean lead him towards the motel room. He didn't need to see for that. Dean's arm was around his waist; his arm was across Dean's shoulders. The room was blissfully dim when they entered it and mattress was soft when Dean sat him on it. A moment later he was lying down, a hand at the back of his head guiding him toward a pillow.

It was easier to open his eyes away from the afternoon sunlight. Dean was standing over him, mouth drawn into a tight line, eyes narrowed at the corners, the set of his shoulders telling Sam how worried and tired he was.

He felt bad for snapping at him about the dream earlier-- Dean was trying to take care of him.

Dean's hand rested on his forehead and Sam knew then he was going to fall asleep again.

"Go to sleep, now," Dean's voice rumbled above him and Sam felt his body obey. He relaxed under his big brother's touch and prayed for a dreamless sleep.

* * *

When Sam came out of the shower the next morning, Dean was standing at the kitchenette stove. He had a fork in his right hand, scrambling something in a pan. A butter knife in his left hand, smothering something that looked like butter onto a piece of toast.

Sam stared in surprise; there was an open bag of bread on the counter. The toaster was out and on, more bread inside it. He blinked and took a step forward-- the olive green decor of the motel room melted into bright walls and daisy speckled curtains.

She was holding a fork in her right hand, scrambling eggs in a pan. A butter knife in her left hand, smothering butter onto a piece of toast.

Pain slashed across his vision; the toaster spouted more pieces of bread.

Dean reached out to grab one with his left hand.

He grabbed his head with both hands; she reached for the toast with her left hand and placed it on a plate, she picked up the butter knife again.

Black dots danced across his eyes; Dean slathered butter across the new piece of bread and stirred the eggs more rapidly.

He whimpered and bent over as pain erupted in his head; he kept his head up, his eyes still fastened on her. She turned the stove off and jumped as she caught sight of him. For the first time since he'd started seeing her, she looked surprised.

She took a step towards him as his legs gave out and his knees hit the floor.

Dean's hands were suddenly on his neck, on his face; Dean's voice a rough timbre in the background of blinding pain. A rushing sound was filling his ears and he dropped his head low, clenching his eyes shut, falling forward into the darkness.

* * *

TBC

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Supernatural."

* * *

"Talk."

"Dean--"

"Right. Now."

They were sitting on one bed. Dean at the foot of it, Sam resting against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him. He'd been up for about half an hour after being out for three. Dean had been pacing when he'd gingerly sat up, hand reaching for his head to make sure it was still attached.

Dean had handed him a bottle of water and pain killers, asked how he felt and if he needed to puke, and hovered under the guise of resuming his _pacing _for a little while before giving up and sitting down-- to stare at him

Sam swallowed, "I'm fine," he offered.

"I didn't ask if you were fine. I _told _you to talk." Dean commanded and Sam bristled, a glare forming.

"I don't have to--"

"You _collapsed _Sam."

"I'm fi--"

"What if that had happened on a hunt?" Dean's voice was ice and Sam flinched, paling.

Dean continued, "We don't have the luxury of hiding shit from each other when it affects us like this."

Sam opened his mouth, Dean wasn't finished, "I need to know you're on top of your game. How the hell can I trust you to watch my back if you're _collapsing _at the drop of a hat?"

Sam felt his heart start pounding and his mouth go dry at the thought of this happening on a hunt.

A part of him knew that what Dean was doing, knew that Dean was goading him into talking about what was going on; doing it by using himself as leverage.

It was something Sam had done on occasion too, something they didn't usually do to each other, because it was low and it hurt in a deep, primal way that neither could escape. Keeping each other safe had been drilled into the core of their being; watching each other's back, covering each other on a hunt-- it was instinct and even knowing that Dean was purposefully pushing those buttons didn't diminish the effect.

"Tell me what's going on, Sam?"

The effect was fear and guilt and Sam drew in a deep breath, because the words were going spill out and he couldn't stop them, "I don't... I just... man, I think... I think I'm going crazy or something," he finished on a little gasp.

"What are the visions showing you?"

"**Dreams**." He snapped automatically.

Dean arched an eyebrow and tilted his head to one side, hazel eyes studying him intently at the outburst.

The wave of deja'vu caught him off guard; his stomach roiled, he closed his eyes against it and pressed his lips together-- no more throwing up. _She _had done, looked at him like that, and tilted her head like that...

"Sammy..."

Dean's voice was low and so calm, Sam knew his brother was freaking out.

He drew in a shaky breath and slowly opened his eyes, "I'm okay..." he stated.

Dean practically leapt off the bed, "No. You are _not _okay." He hissed and started pacing again.

Sam sighed softly, closing his eyes again, waiting for the nausea to reside. He felt the bed dip as Dean sat down again. A hand rested on his shin, "Alright, so let's talk..."

He would have laughed at that if he thought he could get anything past the lump in his throat. It was funny, hilarious even, _Dean _wanted to talk.

"These dreams..." his brother began, "... they're about what?"

Sam's gaze dropped for a moment, as he braced himself, then lifted to Dean's face, "They're not... about people getting hurt or anything like that... they're not _visions..._" He trailed off. How was he supposed to say this? He wasn't even sure what _this _was…

Dean was watching him, hazel eyes studying him, hanging on his every word. It had always been like that. Dean had always listened to him with a startling intensity when Sam slowed him down enough talk.

_"_... I'm seeing... _dreaming, _that is... about... about Mom..." he finished on a whisper so low he wouldn't be surprised if Dean hadn't heard.

But he had.

The hazel eyes widened and Sam swore the color just leached out of his brother's skin, "Mom?" Dean echoed in a whisper.

Sam nodded slowly, feeling miserable. Their mother was a topic they never really discussed. She'd been the center of their childhood, the point around which everything they'd done revolved, and yet mention of her was nearly taboo; mumbled questions and whispered stories were all Sam had gotten of her during his early years. As he'd gotten older, more defiant, he had brought her up as a tool-- nothing pushed his brother over the edge faster than mentions of Mom.

With Dad, Sam had never dared, not until Stanford, that is; not until that night when Mom had been his most effective weapon.

"I'm..." he paused, words sticking in his throat, "... seeing her..." he finished after a moment. But god, it was so much _more _than that. So much more than just seeing her...

Dean's eyes were wide and he was breathing harshly, like he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him, "You're talking to her?" He asked in a quiet, solemn tone that Sam couldn't begin decipher.

He shook his head, "No, it's not... I can't-- I couldn't-- talk to her, not before... not until yesterday-- in the car and then... I don't know _how_ I did it...it just happened... before that..." he shrugged.

"Before that what?"

"I couldn't-- or when I tried to-- she... told me... to wake up..."

Dean stared at him a moment, before standing slowly. He resumed a much slower form of his previous pacing.

"She's coming to you?" he asked finally, stopping to look at Sam.

Sam swallowed hard, Dean's eyes were so dark they made his throat tighten up; he shook his head, "No, its... it's more like... like I'm going to her..."

Dean shook his head, "That's not possible, Sammy."

"I know... I know, but... it's just... when I see her... she's in the middle of stuff..."

"What ya mean?"

"... she's doing things-- she's folding laundry or she's baking-- cookies... or picking... markers up... from-- from the--"

"-- from the kitchen table..."

Sam jumped as Dean finished the sentence for him.

Dean moved to sit on the bed again, his voice colored in wonder, "I used to... color there-- sometimes... before bed and she... she would pick them up for me..."

Sam frowned a little, he couldn't help it, "You never told me that."

Dean shrugged, "I just-- remembered it now, I guess." He shrugged, "I used to tell her I'd draw her a picture for every minute she'd let me stay up later…"

Something was flickering on his brother's face and for a moment Sam felt a stab of envy; Dean had the memories, they were buried, forgotten, but they were there. Sam had never missed the memories, not really, not until they'd gone back to Lawrence and he'd met her ghost; she hadn't been particularly _real _to him until then.

Dean seemed to shake himself out of his reverie suddenly, "I don't get it... how's that possible?"

Sam shrugged, "I don't know."

"You're actually _there._"

"I guess so, man, I mean... I saw her picking up after you and you remember that, how else would I know that?"

"Have you... seen... _me?"_

Sam shook his head, "No, but I've seen _me_."

Dean started, "You've seen _yourself!_" he cried.

Sam nodded, frowning a little, "Yeah..."

Dean leaned forward, "How old, Sam?"

"What?"

"How _old _were you? How many _months?"_

Sam scowled at his brother and opened his mouth to retort that he had no fuckin clue because he'd had **bigger **things to worry about at the time, when what Dean was _actually _asking registered.

"Oh my god." He whispered, deflating.

_Holy shit._

_"Sam?!"_

"Oh god."

"How old?"

He focused on Dean sharply, "Old enough to sit up in a high chair-- holy shit, Dean."

Dean stood again, pacing furiously, "It's near the fire. You're seeing her near the time of the fire."

Sam's mouth went dry and his heart started pounding, "Dean... I don't know... I can't really tell--"

"--it would make sense... your visions are always associated with the yellow-eyed dem--"

"It's **not **a vision!" He snapped automatically, everything inside him recoiling at the idea that was beginning to form in him.

Dean stopped and faced him, his expression hard, "Isn't it?" He asked sardonically.

Sam scowled, "No, Dean, it's not! I don't know _what _it is, but it's not... it's not like my other visions-- I'm not just seeing, I'm _there. _She's _looking _at me."

"How long, Sam?" the question was whisper soft and Sam felt his blood freeze.

He didn't respond and Dean didn't prod any further. The question hung in the air.

He swallowed hard, "Five weeks." He confessed, dropping his gaze.

The answer hung in the silence as heavily as the question had.

"Five weeks you've been seeing Mom and you didn't say anything." It wasn't a question and Dean's voice was oddly quiet. It made a knot in his stomach. He lifted his gaze. Dean was watching him, eyes dark and unreadable.

"I didn't know what to say..." he started, "How to tell you and I wasn't-- I'm **not **sure what it means."

Dean was silent for a moment, just standing, not resuming his pacing. After a long moment he walked over to the window that overlooked the motel parking lot. He stood there, staring out of the window, for so long that Sam felt panic start to rise. He knew, _knew, _that no matter how casual Dean behaved about Sam's powers, they scared him a little. If not because of what he could do, then because of what it all meant.

"Dean--" he began, voice quiet and a bit hesitant.

But his brother turned and spoke before Sam could continue, "We need help."

Sam blinked, snapping his mouth shut and frowning a little.

"I don't know what it means either," Dean continued, "But-- it's over our heads and if... if has to do with the Demon and Mom and... what happened that night, then-- we can't afford to screw it up."

Sam nodded, feeling a shiver run down his spine. There was a note of urgency in his brother's voice and the eyes fastened on him were still so very unreadable. But he knew better than probe right now. Memories of their mother always touched raw nerves with Dean; he knew that to push now would only make Dean retreat further away.

"... maybe Ellen--"

"No." Dean cut him off, shaking his head, "Not Ellen."

"She's willing to help; she's helped us before--"

"I'll accept Ellen's help with a lot of stuff, Sam. I have. We've gone to her with cases and she's been great-- but we're not going to her with this."

He bristled; there was too much John Winchester in Dean's tone suddenly, "Why not?" He asked, a bit more defiance in his tone than was necessary.

Dean arched an eyebrow a little and titled his head to one side, "Because this isn't a job. This is personal and I don't trust her." He said it softly and in a way that made the silent _duh _he'd attached to the sentence implicit.

"Dad trusted her--"

"Did he?" Dean cut him off, "She left that voice-mail for him four months before he--" a pause, "-- before he died-- and he hadn't gone to follow up with her. That doesn't seem to me like he was real eager for her help."

Sam shut his mouth and sat back a little-- he'd never really thought about that. "So where--?"

"Missouri."

Sam blinked, that hadn't occurred to him either. He nodded, "Yeah, okay... yeah." He mumbled.

Dean nodded, once, decisively, the decision made.

Sam watched turn and head back to the kitchenette. With his back to him, Sam was able to observe his brother blatantly. Dean was working with the food he'd been preparing, turning the stove back on and pulling out plates and silverware. He worked silently and quickly and Sam wondered what he was thinking, how freaked out he really was.

There would be no use to ask now. Dean had raised his walls with a nearly audible crank and looking on as his brother worked in the kitchen, Sam knew it would do no good to try and gain a peek over it right now. His brother was processing and no one was allowed in while that was happening.

"Come here," Dean ordered a moment and Sam was up and headed in his direction before he'd even wondered why.

"Wha--" he started, before Dean turned with a plate in his hand.

"Sit down," his brother continued, as he placed the plate of eggs, bacon, toast, and something that looked suspiciously like hash browns.

"Is that hash brown?" he asked, incredulously as Dean handed him a fork.

Dean smirked, "Tator Tots. They kinda-- exploded."

Sam chuckled a little, "When did you--"

"While you were conked out last night, sleeping beauty."

"--yeah, but… why?"

"We had the kitchen and I was-- I don't know... bored, I guess, and the guns were clean--" Dean shrugged, "I thought we'd be staying here longer... since you were puking your guts out and all."

"Oh."

Dean had bought groceries so they could hole up until Sam felt better. It was nice and considerate and exactly the kind of thing he'd come to expect from his brother. Exactly the kind of thing he'd finally noticed his brother had always done.

Dean nodded, "Yeah." He murmured.

He couldn't bring it up though, couldn't mention it. Dean would shoot him down before he'd gotten half the words out, especially right now.

"You gonna eat it or what?"

He started, realizing he'd been staring. Swallowing, he nodded, "Yeah, yeah... you gonna eat?" He asked, lifting his fork.

Dean frowned at him, "No, I just have a plate of food and a fork in my hand for fun."

Sam blinked a little, dropping his gaze to Dean's hands, noticing the plate there for the first time, "Right." He murmured, "Sorry... I just--"

"We're gonna figure it out, Sammy," Dean cut in, taking a seat across from him, "We will. We'll eat. Shag-ass to Lawrence, call Missouri from the road and figure it out when we get there. It's gonna be fine."

Sam nodded, toying with the fork for a moment, letting Dean's reassurance wash over him.

"Hey Dean?" He called several long moments later.

Dean was shoveling a load of potatoes onto his fork when Sam called; he looked up, "Yeah?"

Sam shrugged, "Thanks."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Thank you for reviewing! I really, really, REALLY appreciate it:-) 


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Supernatural."

* * *

"So what'd she say?" Dean's voice was loud in the suddenly quiet car. 

Sam startled, both at the question and the abrupt way Dean had reached over shut the radio off. The music had been on for all three hours they'd been on the road. Not deafening, in reverence to Sam's headache, but loud enough to discourage conversation.

Not that it had been necessary. Sam had _no _desire to talk about what was going on. In fact the _idea _of talking about it sent goosebumps up his arm.

He blinked at his brother, "What?"

There was a pause before Dean answered, "Mom," he said softly, his tone pitched at level Sam only heard when he mentioned her, "... what'd she say?"

He stared at Dean for a moment, blinking, the memory of his mother's words making him feel almost sick. He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to _say _what she'd said, didn't want to make it that real...

But Dean was asking, wanted to know-- _deserved _to know.

He drew in a steadying breath, "She said-- that..." the words faded, her gaze flashing in his mind. So sad, as sad as it had been on the face of her ghost-- what was it about him that made her so sad?

"... that what?" Dean prodded.

He pushed the thought away and focused on answering Dean, "... that I should... learn to control my gifts... or they'd... they'd control me," he forced the words out, "She said that an end is a beginning..."

Dean was silent for a long moment, then, "Oh."

Sam waited for more.

It took a few seconds for him to realize there would be no more.

"That's it?" he asked, shifting on the seat to stare at his brother, ignoring the stab of pain behind his eyes, "That's all you have to say?"

Dean shot him a quick look, but said nothing more. His gaze returned to the road and stayed there. The Impala moved along in silence.

Sam gaped for a few more moments, "I tell you that _MOM _told me to control my gift_**s**-- _as in _plural _and all you have to say is _Oh?_"

Some part of his mind, told Sam, that his anger was illogical; that really, what _could _Dean say. Was there really anything? But he ignored the thoughts, because he was suddenly _pissed. _

Dean remained silent, eyes on the road, a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

"I'm _talking _to MOM, Dean! She's telling me I've got GIFTS! Hell, how does she even--" he cut himself off abruptly, frowning suddenly, a realization flashing across his mind.

"What?" Dean asked a beat later, shooting him another quick look.

Sam blinked, then shifted and faced forward, leaning back against the seat, "Huh." He murmured.

Dean was silent for a moment, "What?!" He asked again, voice higher, "You were all geared up for an Ovary explosion-- what happened? What?!"

Sam ignored the jab, "She knows..." he whispered.

"... knows what?"

"Me. She knows me. I just-- I just realized that. I mean, she looks at me and she just-- she hasn't asked me who I am or anything-- she just knows me..."

Dean didn't respond. Sam glared at him, "You have nothing to say to that either?"

Dean shrugged, "What do you want me to say, Sam?"

Sam released his breath on a huff, "I dunno, Dean-- that its freaky or _something._ "

Dean's eyes cut to him, "It's freaky." He stated, a tiny smirk on his lips.

A smile tugged at Sam's lips, "Yeah."

"Feel better, Francis?"

"Shut-up."

"Get some sleep and if you see Mom ask her if you were originally a girl."

"You're a _jerk_."

"... but I'm handsome." Dean quipped, another smirk on his lips as he shot Sam another look; a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

Sam sighed, "Seriously, Dean--"

"--seriously, Sam, try and sleep. It might help with the headache."

"It might not." He countered, _it might make it worse, _hung in the air.

They were silent for another hundred miles.

"She tells me I shouldn't be there." He offered without prodding; just to get the words off his chest. They'd started circling in his mind, an endless loop that went along with her knowing him, along with her not being surprised to see a stranger in her child's nursery, along with that sad gaze...

Dean was predictably silent.

"When she looks at me--" he continued, "... she tells me that, that I shouldn't be there and then she tells me to wake up. Until yesterday that was all she'd ever said to me."

He felt panic rising again. Too many questions swirling around in his mind and not one single answer. Not one hint as to what it could all mean, at what he was supposed to _do_, at how--

"Breathe, Sam."

The calm words and steady hand on his shoulder startled him. Dean was shooting him another concerned look.

He nodded, Dean's hand fell away.

"We should be there sometime before midnight, if traffic doesn't jam up somewhere."

His brother offered the time frame and Sam nodded, glancing at his watch, they still had several hours of traveling left. He watched Dean reach over and turn the radio back on, he turned it down though, lower than it had been before.

Sam watched the road, the passing road signs, the flickering trees; the music low and familiar-- comforting in a way few people would associate with heavy metal rock.

* * *

**  
**

She was pulling a tray of biscuits out the oven. They were a little lopsided and a bit too golden and crispy looking to be perfect.

He heard her mutter a quiet, _damn, _as she set the tray on the counter. Her hair was pulled back into a pony-tail, strands of it tucked behind her ear. There were pans on the stove. Plates and silverware sitting at the far of the counter, waiting to be set out on the table. He watched her reach for a small bowl of something. A moment later she was brushing the contents of the bowl over the tops of the biscuits.

"Melted butter," she offered into the silent kitchen, "John likes them moist."

He started, realizing she was aware of his presence. He opened his mouth, intent on speaking to her, but no words came. She put the brush down and turned towards him. Her hazel eyes locking on his.

"You came awake last time," she murmured, studying him.

He tried to speak to her, to ask her what month it was, to _warn _her-- but no words came. He couldn't even move this time; something held him place, something stopped his voice. He could _feel _it, a pressure of sorts holding him in place. She was watching him, he knew, but she and the kitchen faded as he struggled against what held him in place, as he pushed it away; a sliver of terror slid down his spine when he felt the _something _push back.

His eyes widened and suddenly she came into focus sharply, there was a smirk on her lips, _Dean's _smirk. He couldn't breathe suddenly-- it was her, she was--

"Breathe," she whispered, and just like that, he could.

Panic exploded inside, he knew his breath should be hitching, but it wasn't; he was breathing normally, regularly...

Her eyes were soft and she took a step towards him, "It's going to be okay, it's all going to be okay," she comforted and somehow he felt the panic ease a little, something warm slipping in, in its place.

"Mom..."

A child's high pitched cry sounded from above them.

Dean.

"... I'm hunnngryyyyy..."

Her head shifted towards the direction of the doorway, a smile tugging at her lips, "Come set the table, then," she called out, her voice filling the quiet kitchen.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Her gaze was on him again and he felt the pressure ease, felt himself being freed, just as she whispered, "Wake up."

* * *

**  
**

They were still in the car, still moving. He jerked awake and then cringed as his brain slammed into his skull again.

"Easy, kiddo, easy," Dean soothed, a calm voice and a steady hand on his shoulder.

Sam drew in a deep breath, Dean's hand fell away. He dragged his own hand over his face, wincing as his head throbbed. He leaned back, keeping his eyes closed, waiting for his heart to stop trying to beat its way out of his chest, for the jittery feeling to fade.

A bottle of water landed his lap, vaguely he wondered where Dean had gotten it. Eyes still closed, he uncapped it with shaky hands and brought it to his lips. The water helped, he took a long drink.

He released a long breath as he recapped the bottle. Tentatively, he opened his eyes. It was dark outside. The music was off.

"Thanks," he muttered, turning slowly to look at Dean.

Dean nodded, his eyes on the road. A moment passed and then he said quietly, "So it happened."

"Yeah," he replied just as softly.

"She was making dinner," he offered when Dean didn't comment, "... apparently Dad likes his biscuits moist."

Dean remained silent and Sam felt the burn of frustration deep inside. He didn't like this anymore than Dean did; did his brother think it was _fun _feeling like his brain was going to explode and have his _dead mother _tell him it was going to be okay when he didn't even know what _it _was, did he think that--

"Hers weren't."

Dean's quiet admission cut off his internal rant. All thoughts ceased and he shifted completely toward Dean, waiting for more.

"... they always came out kinda-- dry or something..."

"She was brushing melted butter over them."

"Her quick fix."

Sam nodded, he wanted to ask Dean what else he remembered. He wanted to ask him why he had never told him before. He wanted to know why his brother never mentioned her first. He wanted to know why he kept her all to himself... but now was not the time, the time might never come.

"I heard you," he said instead, "You were yelling that you were hungry. She told you to come set the table." He paused, tilting his head to try and get a better look at his brother's face instead of his profile, "Did you always set the table?" he asked, curiosity bubbling out of him.

Dean didn't respond right away, but Sam waited anyway. It could go both ways, the silence could stretch all the way to Missouri's house or Dean could break it and answer.

"No, only-- no, not always."

The answer was low and stilted, but Sam would take it. He wanted to ask more, to ask his brother _when _he'd set the table to ask if there'd been certain days, certain traditions to it, but he knew better. If Dean wanted him to know, he'd tell him.

He waited.

His brother released a long sigh suddenly, "Christ Sammy, turn the goddamned puppy-dog look _off _would ya?"

"Huh?"

"I can _feel _it blazing into the side of my head! I don't... I don't remember a lot of stuff, okay. I was _four." _

Sam blinked, frowning, "I know that. I just--" he shrugged, words trailing off. He sighed too, dropping his gaze to his lap.

"I think-- I _think--" _

Sam's head snapped up when Dean spoke and he smiled a little at the way his brother emphasized the word.

"... that I set the table when she was running behind-- or something like that..."

He smiled suddenly, "Was she a good cook?"

Dean shrugged, "I was _four, _as long as it wasn't green I ate it."

"So not much has changed, huh?"

"Shut-up," Dean shot back, a smile tugging at his lips; the image of the smile tugging at _her _lips when four-year-old called to her, flashed in his mind.

"We'll be at Missouri's in another hour."

Sam nodded, shifting to lie back against his seat. "Sounds good. Just don't let me fall asleep."

Dean was silent and the sound the of the road filled Sam's ears.

"Did you talk to her?" Dean asked, and Sam startled a little, aware suddenly that he'd been drifting away.

He paused before answering, remembering the pressure he'd felt, the restraining force that held him in place, the smirk on her face, "No," he answered, his voice wavering a little, "I couldn't talk... couldn't move even... Dean I... I--"

"You what?"

"I think she didn't let me."

Dean shot him a quick look, "What do ya mean?"

"It's hard to describe-- I... I was trying to talk to her-- and it felt like-- like... I dunno... like a pressure or something was stopping me-- every time I tried..."

"Okay, but-- why do you think _Mom _didn't _let _you? Why do you think she was even involved?"

Sam shrugged, already feeling sheepish for just thinking it, "Because... I just... she..."

"She what?" Dean was starting to sound aggravated.

"She-- smirked at me-- like... like you do when you've scored a prank or something."

Dean shot him an incredulous look.

Sam frowned, defensive, "What?"

"She _smirked _at you, Sam, and you think, what? That she used freaky mind powers on you?"

"Well, no-- maybe-- I don't know! My powers came from somewhere, right?"

"From Mom!!"

"Maybe! Dean, we don't know anything--"

"Shut-up, Sam."

"Dean--"

"**Shut. Up.**"

AC/DC blasted so loudly and suddenly that Sam felt the vibrations in his stomach. Dean's face went blank as a slab of marble. He told himself to let it go, that Dean was upset too, that antagonizing his brother wasn't going to help-- all very logical, adult thinking; the little brother gene trumps logical, adult thinking every time.

He reached out and flicked the radio off, plunging the car into silence.

The marble cracked and Dean shot him a murderous glare as he reached over and turned it back on.

Immediately, Sam turned it off.

"Sam." Dean growled at him, left hand clenching the steering wheel as he turned the music back on.

Sam turned it off.

"I swear to god, Sam--"

"We can't just not talk about this stuff--"

Dean turned the music back on and the logical, adult part of Sam told him to let it go, that his brother was not ready to talk about this yet. It told him that a psychologist with three PhD's wouldn't be able to navigate the decades of land mines Dean had planted around the subject of their mother without disastrous results. It told him that he would accomplish nothing by pushing right now-- but the little brother gene screamed that this was a matter of principle now-- the damn music was staying _off. _

He flicked it off.

"So help me god Sam, I will pull this car over and--"

"-- and what?" he countered.

Dean released a breath that somewhere between a growl and sigh, "Can you just--"

"Ignoring it isn't going--"

"--neither is talking about it!"

"... Okay, but--!"

"--is it?"

"We still--"

"--**is it?!**"

"No, but--"

"--then shut up."

It was Sam's turn to release a breath somewhere between a growl and sigh, "Oh my god! _Fine!_" He hissed.

"Good! _Fine!_"

The car was silent after Dean's shouted word.

It took Sam a few more minutes, while he cooled down, to realize-- the music was off.

The logical, adult part of himself told him that nothing had been accomplished, that they really **did** need to talk about this sometime, that ignoring it wasn't going to make it go away and that Dean needed to realize that...

However, _the music was off _and the little brother gene in him made a snicker creep across his face.

_... the music was **off.**_

"I'll turn it back on, I _will,_" Dean snapped from the driver's seat and Sam shifted towards the window more, so he could snicker in private.

* * *

**  
**

Missouri Moseley was as short-tempered and brash as he remembered her. She'd bustled both of them inside, complaining to him that she'd been expecting them for over an hour and cooing to Sam that he looked exhausted and, _sit down sweetie, are you hungry?_

He was careful to keep his thoughts superficial, his emotions under tight wraps. The last thing he wanted was for her to get even a glimpse of the chaotic emotional tangle he was doing his best to keep reigned in.

She fussed and complained, took their bags and jackets, and had them sitting at her kitchen table before Dean could blink. He saw Sam open his mouth to speak.

"Now don't you start with that not hungry nonsense! You boys've on the road all day and haven't eaten since this morning!" She warned, before Sam got a word out.

He smirked as Sam's mouth snapped shut. Missouri was at the stove, her back to them. Sam shot him a desperate look, he shrugged. Truth was he wasn't in the mood to eat either, but arguing with Missouri appealed even less.

She set bowls of a thick stew in front of them, followed by a plate stacked with chunks of bread, "Eat up," she ordered.

Sam looked up at her with those damn puppy dog eyes and Dean almost laughed-- as if that would work on a broad like Missouri.

"Missouri," Sam began, "... we don't know how much time we have--"

"We'll talk as soon as you're finished eating." She interrupted, _not a moment sooner, _hung in the air. There was steel in her voice and he felt himself smirk a little. It was a relief to have someone else push Sam to eat for once.

The stew looked good and he smiled as Sam tasted it slowly and then began to eat with more enthusiasm. He nudged the plate of bread in his direction and watched as Sam took a piece without even glancing up.

He stirred his own bowl, feeling the heat of Missouri's gaze on him. Quickly and efficiently, he shut down all thought processes to do with Sam. He kept his gaze lowered.

The kitchen was quiet, only the sound of eating filling the space. He kept an eye on his brother's bowl, when Sam was nearing the bottom he took his first spoonful. It was as good as it looked and his stomach recoiled as he knew it would. He chewed, swallowed, and lifted his gaze to meet Missouri's.

"So we have this problem..." he began, giving her a bright smile.

She scowled at him, he drew his reign tighter, the smile becoming grim, "Sammy's having these visions--"

Predictably, Sam jumped in instantly, cutting anything Missouri could have send to him off, "_Dreams. _They're **dreams,_" _**his little brother snapped, shooting daggers at Dean; the gaze he turned to Missouri was less heated, but still defiant, "**Dreams.**"

Missouri's gaze was still fastened on him-- seeing right through his diversion-- and he gazed back steadily, his expression blank, daring her to call him on it.

She held the look for another moment before shifting towards Sam, "Now honey, you'll have to leave the deciding of what they are to me," she chided.

"You boys go on to the living room-- I'll be right in." She added.

Sam nodded, looking properly subdued. Dean watched him go, how quickly he obeyed, how quickly he went to the living room-- as if hoping to speed up time, hoping for the answers to come more quickly. Dean wasn't sure there any answers at all, he wasn't sure of anything anymore.

He moved more slowly than Sam. Missouri was picking up the bowls, keeping her eyes off him. He appreciated that. He stood there in silence for a beat, wanting to say something, to ask something and not knowing what.

He left the kitchen without a word. What could he say? What he could he say about any of this? Sam was seeing Mom, talking to her, having her talk to him. It was always Sam and Mom...

He kept his thoughts on that at minimum. They went deeper than he ever allowed himself to go.

Sam was sitting on the sofa, hands on his knees, eyes downcast, probably working himself into hysteria again.

"You find the secrets to eternal handsomeness in that carpet?" he asked casually as he slid in next to him. He felt a bust of satisfaction when a small smile tugged at Sam's mouth.

"You really think Missouri can help?" Sam asked in the next instant and Dean felt the knot in his stomach twist.

"Yes," he answered without hesitation.

Sam would clue in on his hesitation.

"She's the freaky mind powers expert, isn't she?" he teased lightly.

That had a smile tugging at Sam's mouth again, "Yeah, I guess... it's just... this is all so--"

"-- freaky?" he provided, moving in for a full smile, maybe even an eye roll, "I guess that's where having a _freaky mind powers expert _would come in handy, huh?"

Score-- smile _and _eye roll accomplished.

"Yeah, I guess..." Sam repeated and Dean nodded at him for emphasis, wondering where the hell Missouri was.

They needed to get this show on the road, there was only so much groundless reassurance he could offer.

As if she'd heard him-- which maybe she had, Missouri bustled into the living room. Her gaze skimmed past him and landed heavily on Sam.

"Okay, sweetie, so let's take a gander at this problem of yours..."

* * *

**Author's Note**: And next chapter some actual answers! ;-) I meant to give a few answers this chapter, but the boys' conversation got a little long and Mary jumped back in there-- so yeah, next week-- answers-- I promise! 

Also, the bulk of the story will be in Sam's POV, but every once in while we'll take a peak into Dean's head's space like we did here.

Thank you for reading:-)

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Supernatural."

* * *

The waiting was killing him. One glance at Dean told him his brother was not feeling the same anxiety. Dean looked impossibly calm, like discussing conversations with your dead mother held in the past were par the course of life.

Missouri had listened to him attentively as he'd told his story, probing him for details down to the color of the t-shirt his mother had been wearing. She'd asked him to recount each individual event and he had.

Next to him he'd felt Dean tense at certain spots-- the cookies, the Smurf t-shirt, the cursing, the toast... details he hadn't shared with his brother; hadn't because he'd known they'd make Dean tense, because he'd known they'd _hurt _somehow.

Missouri dug them all out, making him remember things he hadn't even realized he'd noticed. The color of the carpet the baby-- _he_-- had been sitting on, how many pans on stove when she was cooking, _what _was she cooking, what pattern on the plates, how many piles of laundry was she folding-- for over an hour she'd questioned him.

And now, she was staring down at the carpet and he almost wanted to use Dean's eternal handsomeness line except he didn't think he could pull any kind of levity out of the churning pit of anxiety in his stomach-- that and he doubted Missouri would find it amusing.

"Well?" Dean hissed suddenly and Sam started, apparently his brother wasn't as calm as he looked, "Do you know what to do or not?"

Dark eyes shot up to Dean's face and Sam wondered how Dean managed not to cringe, "Boy, do I go around asking you if you know how to dig a grave or not?!" she snapped at him.

Dean scowled and opened his mouth; Sam cut in quickly, "We're just worried," he said hastily, nudging Dean's leg with his own, "Nothing like this has ever happened to me before-- usually I have visions and there's a purpose to them..." he shrugged, "... something to do with them... but these dreams..." he trailed off, shooting a quick look at Dean, his brother was still watching Missouri who was now watching him, "... we can't figure them out."

Missouri sighed softly, "Well honey, that'd be because they aren't dreams." She told him softly.

Sam blinked, shaking his head, Dean's words about his visions always connecting with the demon filling his mind-- he didn't want this to be about the demon, he couldn't deal with that-- not if it was about _Mom _and the demon, not if he was going to see--

"No," he whispered, cutting off that line of thought.

"Why would he get visions like this?" Dean asked, his voice oddly somber.

"I didn't say they were visions." She responded, her gaze still on Sam, she leaned forward a little, "What you're experiencing is neither of those things."

Sam swallowed hard, "Then--?"

"It sounds to me like a form of astral projection." She answered before he finished the question.

Sam stared at her.

Like_ what?_

He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head again, "No, no... I--"

"It can't be. He's not _going _anywhere," Dean snapped at her and Sam continued to shake his head.

"It most certainly _can _be," Missouri snapped back, then sighed, standing. She walked away from them a few steps and Sam looked at Dean, but his brother's gaze was on Missouri.

"How?" he asked, not deterred.

She was at a book shelf now, "His physical form doesn't have to go anywhere for him to project." She answered.

"… into the _past_?" Dean prodded.

She nodded, pulling out a thin volume from the row of books, "It's possible, that isn't really the odd part."

Sam's eyes widened and he couldn't seem to form any words--_ well, **holy shit **then..._

His mouth was suddenly so dry he could barely swallow let alone speak, that was okay though because Dean spoke for him.

"Then what is?" His brother asked.

"Sam's astral form shouldn't be visible to anyone."

Sam blinked, "But--"

"Exactly. Which is why I believe it's a _form _of astral projection. It might be blending with your precognitive abilities, maybe even tapping into other undeveloped ones and causing you to be more corporeal than usual." She walked back towards him, holding a book out to him. "This is a quick guide on astral projection. You'll see that the level of detail you're able to remember fits."

Sam took the book, but his eyes were still on her, "An out of body experience? That's it? That's all--"

She scowled at him and he did not have Dean's control, he flinched, "That's where we start." She told him firmly, "You said you touched things while there, felt them; she _sees _you when your there-- those are things that do **not** fit."

Dean stood, "Okay, so what do we do. How do we fix this?"

She looked up at his brother, the scowl gone-- replaced by an expression Sam couldn't quite decipher, "The answer's got to be with your mother."

Sam felt himself tense, his breath leave him a strangled gasp. It had been easy to hear all the rest, it all had to do with him, with what he could do-- but their mother, what _she _could do, _if _she could do... that was something he didn't want to think about; something he knew Dean wouldn't want to think about.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" his brother growled and Sam readied himself to stand too, because he couldn't let Missouri snap at Dean over this-- not over their Mom.

Except she didn't, "Only that we don't have a lot to go on and it seems like she does," Missouri answered him serenely, eyeing him calmly. "By Sam's own admission she seems to know who he is and she knows that his gifts go beyond visions. It would help if we could figure out what else she knows."

Dean didn't say anything, just stared at her, so Sam jumped in, "How?" he asked, and his voice sounded hoarse even to him.

She transferred her gaze to him, "First thing tomorrow we start doing some focus sessions to strengthen--"

"—tomorrow?!" he squeaked, standing quickly, feeling like someone was sucking the air out of the room.

Missouri nodded as she looked up at him, a slight frown on her face, she didn't like being interrupted he realized vaguely, "You'll need to be a bit more rested--" she began.

"--I can't go to sleep!" he cried, unable to stop himself from interrupting her.

"Yes, you can." She stated firmly.

He shook his head, "I don't want--"

"-- it doesn't happen every time you sleep, does it?"

"Well, no, but..."

"I'm going to need your focus, Sam, your energy. At the moment you have very little of both, you need to get some rest, some _sleep_," she stated simply.

A moment later, she turned and started walking away, "… one of you boys can take the guest room, the other gets the couch." She was in her hallway, opening a closet.

Sam watched her pulled sheets and pillows out, she walked back and settled them on the sofa, "I'm sure you boys can manage to make the bed yourselves," she continued, "… bathroom's down that way. I'm heading to bed, it's late. We'll start after breakfast tomorrow."

Sam watched incredulously as she left the living room. He wanted to call her back, but he couldn't-- because he had no idea what he'd say, no idea how to put into words what was going on inside his head.

"You take the bed."

Dean's words made him jump. He turned, staring at Dean with wide eyes, his brother stared back calmly.

"No way you gonna fit those giganto legs of yours on the couch," Dean was eyeing the couch now, frowning, "Hell, no way _I'm _gonna fit on this couch."

He sighed dramatically and thumped Sam on the back, "Lucky for you, you're guest of honor in this joint." He said with a bright smile.

Sam shook his head; "Dean--" his brother couldn't actually think Sam was going to_ sleep..._

"-- I mean if you insist, _I'll _take the bed," Dean interrupted, the smile still in place.

"-- I can't actually go to…" he interrupted back.

The smile vanished so suddenly and so wholly that Sam cut himself off.

Dean's eyes had darkened and he was staring at Sam intently, "So what?" He asked him, in the tone that had made 10 year old Sammy shuffle his feet, "… you're just never going to sleep again?" He asked.

"'... 'cause yeah, Sammy, I can totally see the immediate benefits to that-- but you know, long-term, your plan kinda sucks." He continued, before Sam could answer.

Sam drew in a big, shaky breath, the memory of being held in place, of feeling that _something_ push back, washing over him. He shook his head, "You don't understand, you weren't _there_," he whispered.

Dean's eyes flashed, but he said nothing, just stared at Sam.

"I _know_ it's not a solution," Sam defended. "I'd just rather-- not... risk it tonight... I don't want to-- to do that again..."

Dean watched him.

"I'm not even that tired!"

Nothing, but that steady gaze from Dean.

"I slept in the car, remember!?"

Dean arched an eyebrow.

Sam scowled, "Well I did!" he insisted, knowing he sounded like a 6 year old and unable to stop it.

Dean's gaze held steady for another moment, then he shrugged, looking down then cutting his eyes upwards towards Sam, "Fine, but don't look at me when Missouri wants to know why you're exhausted tomorrow morning."

_Missouri.  
_  
He hadn't considered her. A thought flashed through his mind, he paled, "Shit Dean-- did she say she was going to-- I mean-- am I _training _with her? Is that what she meant?"

"Yes, young Jedi, I think that's what she meant."

"This is _serious, _Dean!"

"I know that, Sam. I know."

The shift in his brother's tone and stance was barely perceptible-- more intent, sharper, wary somehow, and it drew Sam's focus to him instantly.

"Tell me what you're thinking." He stated, his tone nearly matching Dean's.

"I'm thinking you need to get some rest and that _I _do too. So if you don't want the bed, I'll take it."

"Dean--"

"For _fucks sake _Sam! We're in _Missouri's _house. You really want to argue about this _now_?"

"I'm not arguing, _you _are." Sam shot back.

"No. I'm not. I'm going to bed." Dean replied. They stared at each other another moment, before Dean turned and headed for the bedroom Missouri had motioned to.

Sam watched him go, mouth agape a little; that was it? That was all the _input _Dean was going to give him? He blinked as the door closed.

He stared at it for a long moment, thoughts swirling in a mess of half formed ideas and vague panicky notions. He swallowed and stared down at the couch. He'd have to curl into a fetal position to fit on it—the thought had a smile tugging on his mouth, a bubble of hysteria floating to the surface.

He slumped down onto it, resting his elbows on his knees and hiding his face in his hands. God, he wished Dean would just _talk _to him. His brother had opinion about _everything_— Quick Check flavored coffee, natural redheads, dialects of Latin, mating habits of squirrels— Dean could go on and on about it all, about _anything, _his brother was perpetually irritated or amused or pissed off or ecstatic about something. Except apparently, _this; _this Dean had no opinion.

Sam is _astrally projecting _to _1983_ to visit their _mother_—and Dean has no opinion.

Or worse, Sam thought, his opinion was so horrendous he didn't want to share it with him. Worse—Dean thought his little brother had finally crossed the line from _freaky _to downright fuckin scary-ass shit.

But even so, Sam couldn't find appreciation for the silence. It was surprising to him, how much he'd come to _rely_ on Dean's opinions, to temper his own by Dean's.

"If I only had a violin..."

Dean's voice had his head shooting up from his hands. Dean was standing just inside the living room, arms crossed, smirk on his face, eyes seriously studying his younger brother.

"I think I just overdosed on angst _watching _you," Dean continued.

Sam scowled, "I thought you were _going to bed_," he mimicked, "… must be nice to be able to sleep."

Dean rolled his eyes, dropping his arms and starting towards Sam, "Forgot the sheets," he stated, motioning towards the stack and then dropping down to sit next to Sam.

Sam said nothing, lowering his gaze again.

Dean leaned into his shoulder, "You think Missouri has cable?" he asked.

Sam looked over at him, Dean waggled his eyes brows.

A smile started on Sam's face. Dean reached for the remote on the end table while toeing off his boots.

"Check it out, Geek-boy," he ordered, handing the remote to Sam a moment later. He propped his sock-clad feet on the coffee table, a smirk prominent on his face.

Sam knew Dean was remembering their first visit here; his feet on the coffee table were a total coup for Dean.

He stared at his brother; Dean was settling back against the sofa.

"You have to press the button that says _power,_" Dean advised, looking at the empty television screen.

Sam took a deep breath, "Tell me what you're thinking."

The amusement faded from Dean's face and Sam almost felt bad—but he needed this so badly, he _needed _to know.

The seconds ticked by and he clutched the remote more tightly. When the silence was suffocating them both he'd turn the TV on, but until then, he'd wait.

His finger was on the button when Dean finally spoke, gaze still on the blank screen, his voice quiet.

"I think… maybe Mom… had a reason to be sorry."

It was the first reference either of them had ever made to what their Mother's spirit had said to Sam in Lawrence.

"I think… with this case-- _our ­_case… we missed an angle."

They'd never researched their Mom; she'd been the victim, the innocent.

"I think… this—I think, we're in way over heads… maybe we always--"

Dean stopped himself then, but Sam knew. Maybe they'd always been in way over their heads.

The living room was silent for another moment, then he nodded, "Okay—yeah, okay…" he knew he sounded inane, but there was something uncoiling slowly inside him, and he couldn't think straight for a moment, "... thanks… for—telling me—I just wanted to--"

"—to know if I'm as freaked out as you are?" Dean interrupted.

Sam would have said _terrified_, but _freaked out_ was okay too. He nodded.

Dean turned then, looking at Sam, offering him a self-deprecating smile, "Yeah, Sam, I am." He whispered, like it was some appalling secret.

And just like that, Sam felt better. The knot in his stomach eased. It was okay to be totally and utterly terrified, because Dean was too. It might be childish, but he didn't care. He wasn't alone in this and there was comfort in that.

He smiled then, nodding, "Okay, cool." He muttered and turned the TV on. He lowered the sound quickly and started flipping through the channels.

He could feel Dean's gaze on the side of his head, but didn't acknowledge it. He had his own ways of showing his big brother it was okay to be freaked out. He found the cartoon network—because really? Was there anything better?

Then he took off his sneakers and slumped further down into the couch, settling back against it, his arm brushing Dean's. He propped his feet next to Dean's on the coffee table.

"Pass me a blanket," he requested a moment later, eyes glued to the screen. There was no motion next to him. He waited a little longer, then sighed and looked over.

"My blanket?"

Dean blinked, "Seriously?"

He frowned, "Uh, yeah…"

"Sam…"

"It's chilly in here."

"Are you _five?" _

Sam said nothing, just stared.

Dean sighed, a moment later he tossed a blanket onto Sam's lap. Sam smiled and started spreading it out across them.

A cushion smacked him in the face suddenly, Hey!" He sputtered.

Innocent, hazel eyes blinked back at him, "I thought you might want a pillow."

Sam scowled, _"Jerk."_

Dean grinned at him, settling back too, eyes going to the screen, _"Baby_._"_

Sam elbowed him in the ribs, Dean tugged the blanket. Sam kicked his foot, Dean kicked back. The night stretched before them, but suddenly neither one minded.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Hmmm, yes, I know. Not a lot of answers, but Missouri's a cryptic gal. Mary makes a reappearance next week. We return to the actual _point _of the story, LOL, and I leave angsting alone for a bit (maybe). ;-)

Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I do not own "Supernatural" nor any of its characters.**  
**

* * *

**-I-**

"I **_know _**the two of you do **_not _**have your **feet **on MY coffee table."

The strident voice had Sam jumping out of his skin. His arms shot out, his feet kicked outwards tipping the table over. The decorative bowl slid off it, spilling jeweled beads onto the floor. The knick-knacks followed suit.

He scrambled to get up, but found himself tangled in blankets and shoved back by Dean's arms-- who was also trying to extricate himself from blankets and pillows to get up.

Missouri stood at the doorway, eyebrows arched, watching them.

"Fuck Dean," he hissed, when Dean accidentaly elbowed him in the face. He shoved back hard, scowling.

"Shit," Dean growled, yanking on the blanket, trying to pull his arms out. Sam yanked back-- just as Dean freed himself.

A moment later he found himself sprawled on the living room floor.

They were all silent.

Sam on the ground, Dean staring at him, the table tipped over...

"When the two of you are done tussling like misbehaved puppies and you've put my living room back the you found it _and _you've polished the table you put your _feet _on. Then you can come eat breakfast in the kitchen. Cleaning supplies are in the hall closet."

They heard her move away, but neither one moved for a long moment.

"Smooth, dude, _smooth_." Dean taunted, shaking his head.

Sam scowled, it was too early for this, "Like you were?!" He cried.

"I didn't _kick _the table!"

"But you _smacked _me!"

"You--"

**"BOYS!"**

They jumped, holding their breaths, eyes wide.

"Don't you make me come back in there!" She called out to them, "Ya hear me?"

Dean made a face Sam would have found comical if Missouri hadn't just yelled at them.

They exchanged quick looks, "Yes, Ma'am." They called back. Dean shrugged the rest of the blanket off and stood, Sam sighed and reached his hand up so Dean could help him stand.

Dean echoed his sigh and grabbed his hand, pulling him up.

If the last five minutes were any indication, it was going to be a long day.

**-I-**

"Okay then," she murmured, drying her hands on a dish towel, "Sam, you come on with me. Dean, you go on and make yourself useful about town."

Her casual words simultaneously released and doubled the tension in the room. They'd done as she'd requested in the living room. Then they'd sat and had breakfast, then helped with the dishes, then they'd had turns at the shower.

The rest of the morning had been spent sitting at the table, as they were now, watching Missouri clean the kitchen and exchanging looks-- wondering what she was waiting for.

They both jumped at her words. It took a moment for Sam to register the words; for it to dawn on him that she meant to separate them.

"No," Sam he protested, "Dean can stay--"

"That's not up to you to decide. We're going to work and we can't be distracted. Dean can take a trip about town for the afternoon. I'm sure he can keep himself busy."

Sam bristled, drawing himself up a little straighter, "He's not going to--"

"It's okay, Sam," Dean interrupted him, standing from the kitchen table, "Missouri's right. There's nothing I can do here anyway," he shot the woman a look, "I'll get outa your hair so you can concentrate on fixing this."

Missouri arched one eyebrow at the implied order, but Dean had already turned away from her; his gaze fastened on Sam, "... I'll be back later..."

Sam shook his head, standing as well, "You're not gonna distract me," he stated, then looked at Missouri, "He's not gonna distract me," he repeated, "I'd like it better if Dean--"

"We're on a tight schedule, Sam. You implied as much last night," Missouri cut him off, "You have to trust me on this-- Dean has to go." She stated.

Sam knew his brother flinched; he didn't actually _see _it happen, but he knew it did. And he was _pissed _at Missouri for making it happen. She couldn't treat Dean like that, she just _couldn't._

"No problem-- I'm gone," Dean murmured, "... have fun," he added, nudging Sam's shoulder with his briefly as he left the kitchen.

Sam scowled, taking a step forward and opening his mouth to call Dean back. Missouri stepped in front of him, "No, let him go."

He glowered at her, "No. Just because we came to you for help-- which was _Dean's _idea, by the way; he _trusts_ you_-- _doesn't mean you get call all the shots!"

Heheard the front door open and close and moved to step around her.

"I get to call _this _shot, young man! And you're gonna adjust that attitude right this second!" She snarled.

Sam stopped, "He didn't have to leave! I didn't want him to!" He snarled back.

"But we _need _him to!"

_What? _"What?"

She sighed, "Come with me..." she stated, heading out of the kitchen.

Sam didn't move. He heard the Impala roar to life. Dean was leaving and that somehow felt-- wrong. Whatever _this _was... it was about their Mom and Dean should be here for that.

Missouri was standing in front of him again, "You have to trust me, Sam; this isn't going to work if you balk at everything I say."

"I'm not balking-- I just... I didn't want--"

"Dean's a big boy, you don't have to worry about hurting his feelings." She stated.

He scowled, "Don't **do **that! Don't read me!"

"It's what I _do,_ Sam," she told him, "... and I believe we're here to figure out what _you _can do."

"We are, but--"

"Then believe me when I tell you that for this we need Dean gone. He's gonna be the easiest for you."

Sam blinked, was that supposed to make sense?

"Come with me," she told him again and this time he complied. As they passed the front door towards the stairs he couldn't stop himself from sighing, it still didn't seem fair...

Missouri led him to a small study.

Lined with bookshelves, the room had one coffee table and two armchairs in it. Small end tables stood at the corners with lamps on them. The drapes were a dark burgundy color, the material looked heavy. The carpet was a shade lighter than the curtains and symbols were engraved onto it.

"Sit down there," she told him, pointing to an armchair.

Remembering the instruction to not balk at everything she said, he sat down without a word; then watched as she opened a drawer in one of the end tables and extracted several stones. She began to set them out around him. He swallowed hard, years of training couldn't be silenced and even the fact that Dad had trusted her, that Dean had brought him here, didn't stop him from reaching out and catching the last stone she was about to place before it hit the ground.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She smirked at him, "You have nothing to fear from me, boy. I'm on your side all the way." She murmured; which was comforting to know, but didn't answer his question.

He waited, still holding the stone in his closed hand.

"It's going to amplify whatever energy we manage to drum out of you," she answered, "You're not likely to have much. You've never trained your abilities and they require a form of focus that's not gonna be familiar to you."

She stared at him, not offering anymore and not demanding that he return the stone. It wasn't a good idea to let anyone put you in a circle of crystals unless you were damn sure of what those crystals were gonna do.

He really wished Dean were here. With a sigh, he opened his hand. She took the stone and placed it on the carpet. Nothing happened.

"Okay, that's that." She stated, "Did you manage to read anything from the book last night?" she asked.

He smirked, "I read the whole thing." While Dean had watched cartoons.

"Good, good."

"What I'm doing is a cross between astral and etheric projection."

"With something else thrown in for spice," Missouri offered, smiling at him.

A surprised smile tugged at Sam's mouth too, "So what are we doing about it?"

"First, we attempt to get you project in the simplest form possible and we build from there." She answered taking a seat across from him.

"But I don't _want _to project, that's the problem--"

"To stop it, you have to know how to _use _it, how to control it." She interrupted him, "You learn how to do it and you can stop yourself from doing it."

Okay, that made sense. But still...

"... and Dean had to be gone for this, why?" he asked, unable to keep the accusing tone out of his voice.

"He's the easiest mark for you," she answered calmly, as if that made any sense, "Your most accessible link at the moment."

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. It had been a long sleepless night, in a series of long sleepless nights-- he was not in the mood for this. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, frustration leaking into his voice.

"It means," she answered pointedly, "... that if you're able to see anyone with as little training as you have, it'll be Dean."

"_See_ anyone?!" he asked, suddenly panicked. What exactly were they talking about?

Missouri sighed, as ifs he'd explained this already, "Yes, Sam, you're going to see Dean; to project to where he is."

Oh, well, sure.

"No way." He answered and she arched an eyebrow.

"You're balking again," she told him simply.

"I don't know--"

"Boy! You are _trying _my patience!" She snapped at him, eyes flashing, "I _know _you don't know anything! That's why you're here, ain't it!?" she hissed, "... hard-headed like your Daddy, is what you are. Stop yapping and _listen _to me."

Sam's mouth snapped shut.

"We are going to do some strengthening exercises. Then I am going to walk you through the process of a basic projection. It isn't hard and because you've got enough natural ability to light up a city it shouldn't take long. Now 'cause you _don't _know what you're doin-- you're going to project to Dean; that's the equivalent of training wheels-- easy as pie." She said with a smile now that he'd shut up.

"Why couldn't you _tell _him that?" Sam asked and even he heard the petulance in his tone.

"Because he'd be aware of what you're doing and that would change the dynamics. People you go on to do this with won't be aware of it-- so neither should Dean. You can tell him about it after." She explained.

It made sense, it didn't change the fact that she'd driven Dean away though. He wasn't comfortable with that-- for any reason.

He consolidated that thought, made it as sharp as he could, made it the only thing in his mind and met her gaze steadily.

Her eyes widened a little, her lips quirked oddly and then she nodded, "Point taken." She responded steadily, and he nodded back, releasing a long breath along with the thought. A pain beginning to pulse at the back of his head.

She arched an eyebrow, "You took the reading to heart."

Sam was quiet for a moment, "I'm a fast learner," he responded. And they didn't have much time.

"Okay, lets get started then. "

He felt tension coil inside him at her words.

"... first thing-- you have to relax."

Relax. Right. Of course.

Oh, yeah. It was _definately _going to be a long morning.

**-I-**

He knew now, why psychics, the honest to god _real _ones, only took a few clients at a time. It wasn't just a headache, headaches he knew-- intimately. No, it was a weariness that went down to his bones.

It had taken three and a half hours. Fast, Missouri insisted, but they'd felt eternal to him.

Three and a half hours of focus and breathing and concentrating and exhaling and _clearing his mind_, three and a half hours of _relaxing_-- and seriously, who knew relaxing could be so friggin _stressful_... but in the end, he'd done it.

He'd seen Dean; seen his brother at a library, seen him bent over books; seen him staring at a computer screen, notepad to one side, pen in hand. He'd have thought it a memory if not for the attendant that offered to help Dean twice in one half an hour.

The attendant whose name Dean had learned was Amy. Sam had _seen_ Dean flirting with her.

Amy made it real. He'd projected to his brother.

And now it was hard to even see straight. He just wanted to sleep. He'd meant to wait for Dean and confess exactly what had happened; to tell him that he'd practiced sharpening his thoughts and clearing his mind, to tell Dean that he'd seen him, that he'd projected-- that he'd finally learned to do _something _with his gifts. He wasn't going to make it, though. He practically staggered into the guest bedroom, lurching towards the bed, falling face first onto it-- vaguely hoping he didn't see _her. _He was asleep before he finished the thought.

**-I-**

Dean wandered back in after staring at Sam for twenty minutes. His little brother was sprawled out on the bed, face buried in a pillow, conked out. He had searched the living room first when he'd gotten back. Then the kitchen; Missouri had been in there when he'd strode through the door. _He's in the guest room, _she'd told him, not bothering to look up from where she'd been reading.

He was back in the kitchen now. She was still reading. He just stood there-- he didn't know what else to do. So he just stood there-- waiting. He'd come to her because he trusted her. He trusted her because Dad had and because she lived in a hazy memory of his; a memory of a time when everything was too big and too scary and everything was always moving. The memory was warm... he didn't know exactly why, but it was-- so he trusted her.

Still, she made him uncomfortable on a level he very rarely experienced. There was a feeling of being measured when she looked at him, of being judged against something and he could never tell whether he was found lacking or adequate. He wasn't sure which verdict would be worse.

"You just gonna stand there, boy?! she snapped, her head still bent over the book. He didn't jump, he'd been accepting her to snap at him.

He shrugged, offering a her crooked smile, even though she wasn't looking at him.

"You got somethin to say?" she asked after a moment, lifting her gaze.

"Yes." He offered. Then swallowed hard, "How... how did it go?" He asked.

She was silent for a moment, then motioned towards a chair, "Well sit then, if you wanna talk."

He did, she put her book aside.

"He did good; catches on fast." She told him and he fought the urge to squirm under that steady gaze.

He nodded, "Yeah, always has..." He trailed off.

"Is there something specific you wanted to ask, Dean?" she asked, and he knew she already what he wanted to ask.

He scowled at her, "Don't go through my thoughts." He ordered and he didn't care if he sounded harsh. The idea of being an open book to someone pissed him off... and maybe terrified him a bit.

"You're far from an open book," she commented, smirking.

His eyebrows shot to his hairline and he made a move to stand up. He wasn't going to sit here and have her _read _him.

"Don't." She stated, "You have a question. Ask it."

He stared at her, the smirk was gone.

"Did Dad know? Did he know about Mom?" The question slid out of him. He didn't explain, didn't preface it-- knew he didn't have to.

She answered immediately, "It took him years to come back here and even then... he didn't go there. But yes, in the end... he did find it."

"Did he ever... did he..." He couldn't finish it, his gaze dropped to the table. The knot in his stomach had suddenly risen to his throat. He couldn't do this-- he couldn't have the world shifting, not again... not like this...

"Look into it?" Missouri finished for him.

He nodded, his gaze still lowered.

"No, he didn't. John felt it didn't matter."

He turned those words over in his mind and felt his heart thud. He lifted his eyes to her, "I think it does." He whispered.

She nodded slowly, "I do too."

"Yeah, okay." He murmured. There was nothing else _to _say.

He stood abruptly. He needed to get out... he needed to process and _do _something...

He could feel her gaze follow him as he walked towards the door. He stopped suddenly, a thought striking him, he turned back to her and shuffled his feet a little, then took a deep breath, "I was-- when I went-- in the bathroom-- there's a tile that's a little... it's kinda loose. I could... fix that for ya... if you want." He offered. He wasn't exactly sure where the offer had come from, but he felt better as soon as the words left his mouth. It was something to do-- something he **could **do.

She was eyed him, "Hmmph," she murmured, "... hadn't thought a that... there's a tool box in the garage and the window in the study upstairs doesn't open; and there's a floorboard in there that creaks; and there's a light bulb that went out, out back that could us replacin..."

He nodded, "Yeah, okay... sure, I can do _that_-- at least..." he muttered.

She stood suddenly, "You can do a lot, Dean. You always do."

He felt an abrupt, hairline fissure inside him and instinctively took a step back.

He couldn't-- panic welled inside, pushed against his chest, a lump rose to his throat.

He couldn't take-- sympathy from her-- it would-- it would break him; her sympathy would shatter him.

He wouldn't be able to hold steady under it.

He swallowed hard, immobilized by those dark eyes-- studying him-- _reading _him.

His eyes burned, _please no, don't be understanding, don't be soft... _

He couldn't lean against soft, something soft couldn't support his weight.

"Well?" she snapped, "Get to it! It ain't gonna fix itself!"

He did jump then, the words taking a moment to register; the pressure easing as abruptly as it had built.

He swallowed again, nodding, "Yes, ma'am," he responded automatically, she nodded.

They stared at each other another moment before he lowered his gaze and moved to leave the kitchen. He could feel her gaze following him out; he'd do the work and hopefully when he was finished Sam would be awake.

Because, he wasn't really sure how much alone time with Missouri he could hold steady for.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I apologize for the wait-- RL demanded undivided attention for a bit and then I couldn't get this chapter to sound right so I held on to it for bit. Missouri turned out to be a little rough for me write. We argued, glaring was utilized, but finally we came to an uneasy amnesty. ;-)

Thanks for reading!!

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Supernatural."

**Author's Note**: Heh. So this is the first story where I've been Kripke'd. Yay for me. : P

I'm going to continue along with what my idea for this was, which means that it **has **spun off into AU territory, instead of the 'possibilities' territory where it was residing. In S3 Sam has stated he no longer has powers, he does here.

Also, Mary-stuff abounds. I don't read spoilers so anything that I write here about Mary is purely speculative.

Thank you all for the wonderful reviews and PM's that kept coming even though the updates stopped. And huge thanks to **Lembas7 **who beta-fu'ed this for me. Any remaining errors are all mine.

* * *

She was standing on a ladder, hanging curtains. The curtains were crème with pink prints of big blooming roses that swirled into more big blooming roses. Mary was balanced perfectly, both arms above her head as she hooked the bar into place. He watched, holding himself completely still, not wanting to startle her. She played with the top, arranging ruffles upwards, then sighed and started climbing down. Automatically, he moved to help - then stopped, surprised that he could move. 

She was standing on the floor now, looking up at the curtains. "I can never get them perfectly straight," she complained, eyeing the window critically.

"Mom," Sam said, jumping at the sound of his voice. It was _real_, and he blinked. "Oh god, I can -_ Mom_. Can you tell me -"

"Shhh," she interrupted, but he felt nothing push against him like last time. He felt nothing _force _him to stop.

"What mon -"

"You shouldn't be here," she interrupted again, voice frustrated, gaze reproaching. "Wake up," she murmured.

Already his senses were more attuned. He felt it, felt _something _touch him, trying to move him away from here. He closed his eyes, cleared his mind, focused his thoughts and pushed the something away.

"What month is it?" he asked as soon as its touch slipped off him, eyes opening. "What _day _is it?" His voice caught. "Mom, there's somethi—"

Mary's eyes flashed, the hazel in them getting brighter, like Dean's. "You can't force yourself here. Your presence is a danger to us, to _all_ of us," she told him. Sam opened his mouth; she raised her hand and the words stuck in his throat. "You have to wake up," she repeated, then added steadily, "_Now._"

It slid into him before he even felt it.

Sam jumped awake, bolting upright. The room spun and there wasn't enough air. He gasped, nausea roiling up, snapping his mouth shut even as he leapt off the bed. He slid into the bathroom, landing on his knees just in time to deliver an offering to the porcelain god.

"Ugh," he groaned after his stomach finished emptying itself. He dropped his forehead onto the toilet seat. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Sam closed his eyes, wishing he could disappear. The room was spinning behind closed eyelids and he let himself spin away with it.

"Hey there, sweetie." Missouri's voice drew him back towards consciousness.

Sam frowned, trying to move, to speak. "Whe's Dea'?" he managed to croak out. He didn't _mean _to sound like a five-year-old, but at the moment it couldn't be helped.

"He's out back. I'll get'm for ya," she answered softly.

He had no doubt in _getting him,_ Missouri'd probably freak him the hell out...

"No," he mumbled, "M'okay." Sam tried to pull his head up, so he could offer her a reassuring smile. His head wasn't cooperating, it flopped back down. "Jus' need a minute…" he added vaguely.

The minute stretched and wavered and he wasn't sure whether his _minute_had morphed into hours or even days before he heard Dean's footsteps.

"You're developing a real relationship with toilets there, Sammy."

"Dean." It came out in a pathetic, breathy whisper and he couldn't even drum up the energy to care.

His brother's hand was on his back, rubbing gently. "You finished?" Dean asked wryly.

A small chuckle escaped Sam. "Yeah, finished," he confirmed.

"Okay, let's get off the floor then," Dean said. Sam felt the hand on his back move around him, coming to rest underneath his arm. His other arm was lifted and laid across Dean's shoulders. Then he was being pulled up, hauled up against Dean. His head flopped, his chin touching his chest and he tried again to lift it, and again failed. He closed his eyes and let himself be guided out of the bathroom, down the short hallway and back into the bedroom.

"Happened 'gain," he whispered. "Curtains weren't straight."

"Yeah— crooked curtains, makes me puke all the time."

Sam smiled as Dean sat him on the bed. Then he sighed softly. "Head hurts," he muttered as he buried his face into his hands.

"His head hurts," he heard Dean repeat and Sam realized that Missouri was in the room too. He could practically feel the heat in Dean's gaze and it wasn't even directed at him.

"I'm sure it does," Missouri whispered and she sounded so all knowing and accepting that Sam wished he could add his own heated glare in her direction.

"Well,_do _something about it," Dean hissed at her, tone straining under tight control.

Sam waited for a snapped reply, it didn't come. Instead he heard her release a long sigh, "Wish I could, but I can't. Unfortunately, it comes with the territory. As he gets stronger, the headaches'll ease and eventually fade."

"Fine, I'm going out to the car," Dean responded and Sam practically sighed.

Car. Med Kit. Painkillers.

"Nothing that'll knock'm out too deep," Missouri warned a moment later.

"Why not?"

Yeah, why not? Oblivion sounded nice right about now. Why would Missouri deny him oblivion?

"Because it could… keep him there, with her, if this happens again."

"What?"

"What?"

Sam managed to lift his head for that, echoing Dean's startled question with a gasped one of his own.

She shrugged. "Whatever is going on, it seems to be picking up speed. More episodes more frequently; we don't know what effect it could have if he's medicated and _can't _wake up," she explained calmly.

The room was silent for a moment before Dean spoke sharply. "So, what? There's nothing we can do?"

"We can try breathing exercises. They might help," Missouri offered and Sam sighed softly, lowering his head into his hands again. He wanted _drugs, _he wanted scientifically generated oblivion.

"That's bullshit," Dean hissed.

"It's where we're at right now," Missouri snapped back.

Dean had probably reached the end of her patience.

"Fine. You stay there, I'm goin' to the car," he informed her. "We'll take our chances."

Sam felt Dean's hand land briefly on his shoulder. "Be right back," his brother murmured.

Sam heard him leave the room.

A few seconds slid by before he lifted his head again, squinting his eyes in an effort to clear his vision. "You're supposed to help me," he told Missouri, not caring if he sounded accusing or not. He hadn't expected to get pulled into another vision – dream –_projection - _so soon. It hurt and it made no sense and his _Mom_** knew **him, he was certain - and just _how...?_

The psychic moved to sit next to him, placing a hand on his knee. "I'm going to try Sam, really I am; but I can't work miracles. This power of yours is taking you to her for a reason." She paused and she he could almost feel her weighing her words. That made him nervous - Missouri didn't weigh her words, she spat things out and barreled through the rubble if need be. Sam wanted to put his head down again, but her dark eyes held him in place. He waited.

"We need to be clear on something," she said finally. "Did you come to me because you want help with this power or did you come because you think I can help with answers about your mother?"

He blinked at her. That was such a horrible question to ask him when his brain was convulsing against his cranium.

He drew in a deep breath. "I just… I want—"

Sam swallowed. What _did _he want? His mother's flashing hazel eyes answered that question almost instantly.

"Answers about Mom," he confessed. "I want to know why her? Why did it come for her? Why right _then_? Just, why?"

Missouri nodded. "Okay, well. You need to be prepared for that bein' something I might not be able to help you with," she said gently, patting his knee.

He jumped a little, feeling cheated suddenly - she was supposed to _help _him. "But -"

"I _can _help you," she interrupted. "I can help you learn to the control this power, Sam, I can and I will - but learning answers, that may be something only you and your brother can figure out," Missouri finished quietly.

Their mother, their problem - only they could figure it out; that made sense. But it wasn't what he wanted to hear.

Sam didn't know what to say to that, how to respond. So he lowered his face back into his hands and waited for Dean.

He just wanted the headache to go away.

"It's always hard at first," he heard Missouri say. Her voice was quiet and it gave him something to focus on other than the pain. "Akin to growing pains, I guess. You're using parts of yourself you never used before, it'll take some adjustin' to. You can't expect to get the hang of it right away. It'll be hard for you . . . you're used to excelling at things quickly, but you'll have to work at this Sam. It isn't just going to happen."

She was silent then. After a moment she patted his knee again, remaining quiet. He drew a deep breath and tried to _focus _the pain away.

He was still working on it when Dean entered the room with a small bottle in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

"Here," he offered " Excedrin— won't put you to sleep."

Sam lifted his head and held out his hand; Dean dropped a few capsules into his palm and then handed him the glass of water.

"Thanks," he croaked, handing Dean the glass back.

Dean nodded, then held the glass out to Missouri, "Would you please take this back to the kitchen for me." It was polite and phrased as a question, but it wasn't one. Missouri stared at the extended glass for a moment, then lifted those dark eyes to Dean.

Sam watched them. There was a constant push-pull between these two and he could never garner what the dynamics actually were

Missouri took the glass. Dean remained silent.

"Thanks, Missouri," Sam murmured as she moved away.

She paused and turned to look at him. "No problem, sweetie. You keep in mind what I told you, okay."

And a second later she was gone. The room was silent for a moment, then Dean moved closer, sitting on the bed. "Why don't you lie down," he prodded. Sam shook his head.

"Rather sit," he murmured.

They sat in silence for a while. Then Sam heard Dean draw a deep breath.

"What'd you see?" his brother asked after a long moment.

Sam swallowed and continued to stare at the floor, thankful that he could at least blink now without seeing lights. "She was hanging a curtain - with pink roses on it."

Dean didn't speak.

He drew in a deep breath. "I talked to her, and she talked to me. She told me that I couldn't be there. That I was putting them in danger." Sam shook his head, "She's not surprised at all. She knows me, and I'm _positive _that she - she _stops _me from talking. I felt her do it. I just – god, Dean, what the hell is going on?"

Dean was still silent and Sam lifted his gaze to his brother. Dean was staring at the floor too and Sam felt the knot in his stomach twist.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I was in the library today-"

"I know." The admission slipped out.

Dean stopped, looking at him inquiringly.

"I saw you," he confessed. "I projected today - to the library. I saw you and the girl."

Dean stared at him a moment, then smirked a little, "Missouri said you caught on fast."

"It's why she wanted you to leave - so I could go to you. She said it would be easier for me and that you couldn't know 'cause then you'd be aware and you couldn't be aware 'cause then -"

"It's okay, Sam," Dean interrupted, that small smirk on his lips.

Sam stopped and shook his head. "No, it's not," he said firmly. "She didn't have to be so mean about it -"

A laugh escaped from Dean, an actual _laugh, _and Sam stopped, eyes widening.

"As scary as it is - I don't think Missouri's ever been _mean _to either of us," Dean offered.

Sam pondered that for a moment, before a smile touched his lips, "Dude. That's terrifying."

Dean nodded, "Tell me about it."

They grinned at each other for a moment, and it was – nice. A release of tension, for a moment at least. Sam released a long breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"So what'd you find out at the library?" he asked softly and was completely unprepared for the way Dean's face changed. Shutters slammed down so fast Sam leaned back a little, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. Usually he at least _knew _when the shutters were coming down.

"Dean?" he asked, heart suddenly in his throat. He knew whatever Dean was about to say was _bad, _really godawful bad because his brother wasn't looking at him anymore. He was studying the bedspread and almost _fidgeting, _and Dean did not fidget. "Just tell me," he added after another moment of silence.

"I can't find any trace that Mary Anderson existed until 1975."

The soft words meant nothing to Sam. He swallowed hard, needing them to mean nothing. "Wh-- what does that…? I mean, how…? I don't understand."

"I was just-- I wanted to see what I could find on her. So I looked up their marriage certificate. They were married in 1978, the file had a copy of their birth certificates and Dad's drivers license." Dean stopped there. Sam waited.

"What else?" he asked when the seconds ticked by and Dean remained silent.

"Her birth certificate said she was born in Clearfield, Kansas. I looked up their town registry online."

"No Mary Anderson?"

Dean shook his head at Sam's question. "_Three _Mary Andersons born in 1959 in that town - none of them are our Mom."

"Are?"

"Yeah, all three are alive and well."

Sam took a deep breath, "Okay. Okay, fine. But, why… you said—"

"I called them to be sure. Everything they have forwards of 1920 is on the website."

The breath caught in Sam's throat. "Okay, fine, but…" he trailed off. He didn't know what to ask.

Dean looked up finally, hazel eyes bright and unreadable. "I started working backwards. Starting with the marriage certificate, the first record I can find of Mary Anderson, our Mom, is three years earlier when she got pulled over for a moving violation in Perry, Kansas. That's a few towns over -"

"I know where Perry is!" Sam snapped.

This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be happening. It couldn't—

"I mean, just… god, Dean— who is she?"

A bitter smile tilted the corners of Dean's mouth. "You got me, Sammy."

Sam shook his head. "I don't… how could Dad miss this? I mean, a birth certificate? That's not— that's barely… that's not exactly a professional cover!"

Dean shrugged, the smirk disappearing. "I doubt he did a background check on her when he married her, Sam. Believe it or not, he was _normal_once."

Sam gaped him, the meaning of this conversation swirling around in his head, "I can't believe this. How did something like this just… _escape _us for 24 years?"

Dean glared at him. "I just told you, didn't I? Dad didn't—"

"Fine, yeah, but what about after?!"

"He didn't look right away—"

"He knew though! At some point he knew and he didn't think to tell us! He—"

Dean interrupted, "Afterwards, I don't know. Maybe he figured it didn't matter or that she was a runaway or something."

"A runaway?"

"Yeah, she was pretty young, you know. Maybe—"

Sam eyed his brother critically. "Dude," he said, invoking the word with the full sense of his disbelief.

But he was unprepared for the way Dean's eyes flashed. "I don't know, Sam!" he roared, and Sam shrank back a little. "I don't _know _how this sort of shit can _escape _us for twenty-four goddamned _years_! I just know that it **did** and now we have to figure it the fuck out!"

The room felt oppressively quiet after Dean's crack in control.

"Okay," Sam repeated, feeling like he'd said nothing _but _that word in the last ten minutes. "We'll figure it out, right. Okay."

Dean nodded, drawing in a deep breath, running a hand over his face. "I was thinking we could start with missing person's reports. See if one was filed…"

Sam sighed when Dean trailed off. "Where?" he asked almost wearily, the task seemed impossible without a name, a location—only a face to go on.

His brother didn't say anything. A moment later Dean stood from the bed and started pacing. Sam frowned, watching him. "What is it?" he asked when the minutes ticked by and Dean said nothing.

"Would you say Kansas is a baseball state?"

Sam blinked, "What?"

"Is it, baseball, popular? You think?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"I think she was," Dean paused. "From a state that, well… a baseball state."

"A baseball state?"

"A state where baseball is really popular or something."

Sam blinked. "A baseball state," he repeated.

Dean nodded, "Yeah. A Red Sox state."

"Red Sox?"

"Yes, Sam! The _Red Sox!_" Dean snapped.

"Okay, okay… relax. I just-- how do you even -"

"She used to," a careful pause, "To sing that song."

"Song?"

"Are you gonna stop repeating everything I say soon?"

"Sorry, it's just… you're not making a lot of sense."

Dean released a long sigh and dropped onto the bed again, "The baseball song, you know. _Taaake me out to the baaall game . _. ."

Sam stared at his brother blankly, processing the fact that apparently Dean knew the _words _to this song.

Dean stared back for a long moment, "Peanuts and Cracker Jacks? Seriously, dude, have you never heard this before?"

"What? Oh, no - yeah! I've heard it. I just," pointing out that he was surprised Dean _knew the words _probably wasn't the thing to do right now. "Yeah, okay. Fine, I've heard it. What about it?"

"She _sang _it to me. With me, sometimes, when Dad wasn't home… we'd." He stopped abruptly.

"You'd what?" Sam couldn't stop his voice from dropping an octave lower than it should have.

Dean noticed, and glared at him. "We'd sing sometimes, okay." The tone was hard, daring Sam to push it. Sam wasn't going to.

His brain had just stopped convulsing in his head - he'd like to keep it that way.

He nodded. "Okay, so what's with the Red Sox?"

"She'd say they were best team in the world - a lot. And she'd… she'd replace the words sometimes."

Sam waited. Dean drew in a deep breath, "Take me out to a Red Sox game," he almost whispered, just saying the words, not singing them, "And then, take me out to Shay's . . ." he finished softly.

Sam ran the song through his head and grinned. Cute.

"Okay," he said softly, "So we search Boston, obviously, and maybe a wider northeastern search. We're gonna need a picture and a time frame -"

"Yeah. I'll take care of it," Dean cut him off, standing again.

Sam frowned, "I can help -"

"You work on getting that power under control. I'll deal with this."

Which would be fine, if dealing with _this _wasn't bound to lead somewhere painful. Sam knew it, and Dean did too.

"Dean, let me help," he said quietly. "If she's not who we thought she was than we should figure it out toge -"

"Who did we think she was?"

Dean's question was soft and Sam flinched a little. He knew that tone, knew not to answer it, not to go where it led. Still. "We knew -"

"Name one thing we really _knew," _Dean insisted, cutting him off. Hazel eyes were guarded, his brother's expression grim.

"You -"

"I was_four. _Dad hardly _ever _said _anything _about her_."_

"She had an uncle -"

"No. Dad said he _thought _her Uncle put that gravestone up. Dad never met the man. Dad never knew her."

"Dean, stop." The words were tinged with pleading; begging him to stop burying her underneath anonymity, to stop erasing what little they had of her.

"It's the truth," his words were flat and his gaze dropped from Sam's.

Sam felt a prickle of fear for his brother. He felt so bewildered, so _hurt _by this - he couldn't imagine how _Dean _was feeling. How much more intense the feeling of disillusion, of betrayal was. How deep Dean would bury those feelings.

"It's also true that Dad loved her. There was a reason for that. She's still our_Mom, _no matter what we find out," he stated firmly, surprising himself by how much he meant that.

No matter what they found, it wouldn't change the young woman he'd seen holding him on her hip as she made cookies.

"And she loved us," he added, remembering their last trip to Lawrence. "You know she did. You _know _that," he continued steadily. Glaring into his brother, forcing Dean feel his gaze, to feel his words and the truth behind them. Their mother had loved them, he was certain of that - whatever else they found out, _that_would remain.

And he wanted,_needed, _Dean to remember that. He was afraid of what would happen if Dean didn't.

Dean looked up then. "Yeah," he said softly, "I know."

But there wasn't enough _knowing _in his voice for Sam's comfort.

"Dean -"

"I. **Know**. Sam. I get it, okay." The voice screamed _back off _and Sam leaned back again a little; his headache had just subsided to normal levels.

"Let me help," he stated. "I feel better already and I'll feel _even_better tomorrow . . ."

Dean eyed him almost warily. "You have no idea what you're doing tomorrow. You're in Missouri's boot camp."

Which yes, was true but -

"I can handle this, Sam. Don't worry about it."

Dean could handle it, right.

Sam took a deep breath. "I worry," he admitted quietly, adding a shrug and a small smile to the words; because he did and he couldn't stop himself.

A moment passed, then Dean returned the small smile, "Dude. You're such a girl."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm hungry."

The smile on Dean's face stretched, "I dare you to go downstairs and ask Missouri what's for dinner . . ."

Sam's eyes widened, "No way."

"_Double_dare you."

"You do it."

"I dared_you." _

"No way. I value my life."

Dean eyed him. "Fine. _I'll _do it. If you're too scared to."

"I'm **not** scared."

He knew what Dean was doing - he _knew _it. He wasn't five anymore. He'd gone to _Stanford _for Christ's sake. He'd been pre-law; arguing was what you _did _when you were pre-law.

Not that any of that mattered when Dean was giving him that smirk.

"I'm **not**,"he repeated, scowling.

Dean nodded, getting up and turning towards the door. "Yeah, sure."

"Dean!"

His brother paused and shot him an innocent look over his shoulder. "Really, Sammy. It's fine, _I'll _ask her. I'm hungry too."

Sam stood. "I'll come with you. I can ask! I'm not scared," he defended, feeling five years old and completely unable shake it off.

Dean shrugged. "Okay, if you insist."

They were out in the hall when Sam heard Dean's chuckle.

"You're such a _jerk_,"Sam muttered, a smile tugging at his lips too.

* * *

TBC

* * *


End file.
